


one of us must know (sooner or later)

by thatbroadcast



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Growing Up, Happy Ending, M/M, Panic Attacks, Ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:59:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatbroadcast/pseuds/thatbroadcast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's mobile is closest, so he reads it out loud: "Group text, all the lads. Louis says we ought to come over tomorrow night for alcoholic refreshment and a bit of slap and tickle."</p><p>"He does not," Niall says, rolling his eyes.</p><p>"Well, no," Harry admits, "But it is definitely implied. Also, BYOB. Cheap bastard."</p><p> </p><p>Ten years on, One Direction break up, make up, and - eventually - make out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one of us must know (sooner or later)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obstinatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/gifts).



> Written for [Obstinatrix](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Obstinatrix/pseuds/Obstinatrix) for the OT5 Fic Exchange. I really hope you enjoy this! I had a ton of fun with your prompt, though I apologize that the story doesn't quite span years:
> 
> _The band splits up, they all fall apart completely, blunder through the next few years alternately angry at each other and meeting up for desperate reunions, get addicted to stuff, get married and divorced and married again, etc...but in the end, can they really live without each other? (Answer: no.) Middle-aged men finally realising what they were looking for was there all along -- !!!_
> 
> Thanks so much to mdashes for being the voice of reason (like, telling me to basically nut up or shut up, that was cool), and to potvaliant for all the hand-holding.

Three months after the end, Niall caves and calls Harry.

“Hello?”

Niall hasn’t heard Harry’s voice in three months. He turns off the telly or the radio whenever their interviews come on.

“Hey,” says Niall, after a beat.

He tucks the mobile between his cheek and his shoulder, wrapping his hands around his own elbows. The quiet settles in.

Harry takes a breath so deep that Niall can hear it, can picture his chest rising and falling, and then says, apropos of nothing:

“So I was at the park earlier - the dog park, walking Nick’s dog - and I don’t know if you’ve been to a dog park recently, but it was proper weird, all these people talking to their dogs in baby voices, and lots of them were in, like, fancy little outfits? The dogs, I mean. I swear this one bulldog had on the same shirt as me, and this is Burberry, right, so who are these people, putting Burberry on their dogs? I love dogs, Niall, but -”

Niall tunes him out after a bit, because Harry does have a gift for talking at length about absolutely nothing.

He’s sat on his kitchen floor, back to a cupboard and knees pulled up to his chest. There are two bags of groceries beside him, half-unpacked before he’d thrown them to the floor.

He hadn’t noticed at the shops, so it wasn’t until he was putting away the tea that he’d realized - the shiny cellophane wrapper promising Yorkshire’s finest, bitter and cheap, his least favorite kind.

There’s organic muesli still in the bag, and an entire net of satsumas, like he’s ever voluntarily eaten an orange in his entire fucking life. There’s Liam’s sports drinks and Louis’ American candy, the sour-sugar gummies that make Niall’s mouth feel like it’s permanently shrunken half its size.

It’s been three months, and he still can’t stop himself from buying Zayn’s favorite tea.

“- and I think it must be some sort of fucked up surrogacy thing, like. Cuddling a chihuahua to absolve yourself from the emotional pain of not having a proper human child.”

Niall laughs before he can help it, startled.

Harry pauses long enough that Niall could have said something, maybe, only the words catch in his throat.

“It’s even weirder when it’s cats, though,” Harry eventually says, before the silence gets one over them. “Right?”

Harry talks for twenty more minutes, a truly staggering amount of time for a monologue about the emotional pitfalls of pet ownership. Maybe he doesn’t talk about that the whole time. Niall’s not really listening to the words themselves, just Harry’s voice, rasping and slow and soothing.

Niall stays on the floor and listens, feeling something unspool inside.

Harry sputters to a stop eventually, and Niall can hear the sound of him uncapping something - a bottle of water, a coconut juice, whatever - and taking a long sip.

“I’m glad you called,” Harry says, eventually.

Niall breathes in. It feels like the first breath in a long while. He’s glad it was Harry, too.

The others are still in his contact favorites, but Zayn never could talk for long, unless he was stoned. Liam would ask him what was wrong, what had been wrong, and Louis - Niall can’t. Not today. Not with the awful sweets in the bag at his feet, and all the weight on his shoulders.

“Me too, mate,” says Niall, throat tight, and rings off.

 

It gets a bit better after that. Not much, but some.

Niall leaves the house most days and takes a walk around his neighborhood, kicking around leaves in the damp Irish spring.

He tries to get up at a decent enough hour. He practices guitar and plays single-player video games. He cooks himself elaborate dinners and even manages to get the portions right most of the time - pasta for one, instead of five. He sees his extended family once a week, and meets Bressie down the pub every other Friday afternoon for happy hour pints and mediocre chips.

He’s got loads of friends in town, but can’t bring himself to see them much. He just has nothing to discuss.

"You do seem better, though," Bressie says that week, lifting his lager in salute. “Less pathetic.”

It's been five days since Niall spoke with Harry. He thinks about telling Bressie he'd called, but Bressie'd probably make more of it than it was, which was just mates, chatting. Catching up.

"Yeah, of course," Niall says, laughing. "Can't mope around forever, right?"

"Sounds about right," Bressie agrees. "You know, a friend was telling me the other day that she read somewhere you're not supposed to see someone for the same amount of time you were with them, after you break up."

Niall snorts. "I'm not sure that rule applies to former boy bands, bro."

A decade. They'd all agreed they needed their space, but god, another fucking decade of it.

Niall pictures it: watching Harry's hair go fully grey from the pages of some shit gossip rag. Hearing Liam's years go past in a blur of Payno-produced Billboard top 100s. Tracking the progression of Zayn's art in pieces sold in online auctions, never seen in person but obsessively catalogued, saved to a desktop folder.

To read Louis' books, his poetry, parsing unknown quantities of emotion in words that Niall could no longer connect to a living person, just a dust jacket author's portrait. The words "former member of One Direction" in parenthesis, behind each of their names.

He never can picture himself in this future spread of magazine articles. Up until three months ago, he'd never even considered it. He was shit at anything that wasn't One Direction.

"Fuck, Bres," he says, finally. "I'm only thirty-two."

Bressie claps him on the shoulder, cheerful. "Most people go through this at some point, you know. It's normal. Loads of people your age don't know what they want to do."

I know what I want to do, thinks Niall. That's the problem.

On the polished bar top, his mobile buzzes. It’s from Harry: a picture of a man walking his cat, which is wearing a miniature rain mac.

Niall starts laughing helplessly, slopping beer from his pint all down the sides of his hand.

He has to set it down eventually and fold in on himself when Bressie sees the picture and goes, “What? It’s not that weird. It’s not!”

 

It hadn't been any one thing, or any one person's fault. Even now Niall's not sure if that makes it better or worse, given how it'd ended.

 

Niall’s been fiddling with a tune for at least an hour now, cuppa grown cold on the side table.

It’s just a fragment of a piece of a song, something he’d once have taken back to the lounge with the lads and played over and over again, until someone had built upon it, sent it back with an overlaid hook. It’s harder alone with no one to volley ideas back and forth with, but satisfying in its own way, like completing a particularly difficult crossword puzzle without cheating much.

He’s still lost in it, a bit, and when the doorbell rings he doesn’t think twice, just pads down the hallway and opens the door right up.

It could have been paps or a wayward fan, though they're not as enterprising as they'd once been. A forgotten package delivery, a door-to-door fundraiser, even, and for a moment Niall's angry, pissed it's none of those things, because instead it's Louis, stood on his doorstep, careworn face twisted into a look of scorn and a cigarette in his hand.

Niall shuts the door. He holds his breath.

“For fuck’s sake,” Louis shouts, “Open the door, Niall! You think you feel weird? Imagine how I feel!”

“I’m not the one on your doorstep!” Niall yells right back, and pounds the door for good measure.

“That is true,” Louis says eventually, still at top volume. “But I think you’ll find you actually rather missed me, if you look within yourself. Deep inside. Way down in there.”

Niall takes a breath.

He opens the door. “What are you doing here, Lou?”

Louis looks over Niall’s shoulder, into his house, and shrugs. “Rovers are in town. Thought I’d check in on you.”

Niall knew that, of course. He checks the Rovers schedule for away games. He’d even briefly thought about going, but the press would have had a field day and anyway, they were meant to be giving one another space.

“Come in, then. But put that cigarette out first. Mi casa, etcetera,” he says, with a big grin that feels horrid on his face, and steps aside, gesturing grandly.

 

Louis takes a sip of his tea and immediately spits it right back into the mug.

"Ugh," he says, screwing up his face. " _Zayn_."

Niall laughs. “Right? He tortures himself with this stuff, I think. Wouldn’t know a good cuppa if it drank him.”

“Disgusting,” Louis agrees, automatic, because they’ve had this conversation more times than Niall even knows how to count.

Niall looks at his own hands, wrapped around a cup of his own. The sugar he’d spooned in just about made it bearable, and anyway, he couldn’t seem to stop buying the stuff.

They were at Niall’s eat-in kitchen table, because the woman he’d hired to help him decorate the house seemed to think a kitchen table was a necessity. Niall wasn’t so sure. Not like he had loads of company over all the time. He’d never sat at it before really, and doing it now with Louis just seems awkward, needlessly proper.

“So,” Niall says eventually, when the silence and the weight of Louis’ eyes, carefully avoiding his face, becomes relentless.

“Oh fuck off,” Louis says, rolling his eyes. “Can we not, please?”

Niall sips his tea. “What, then?”

Louis pushes a hand through his hair, in need of a good trim. “You ask me how I’ve been, and I’ll ask you how you’ve been, and then we can just pretend nothing’s happened. Like we're all still together and you haven't moved to Ireland and bought a sadness house, and everything's fine. Did you even decorate this place yourself?”

Niall thinks, briefly, about hurling his mug right at Louis’ head. It’s the look on Louis’ face that stops him.

Louis' got more crows' feet than Niall remembers, even six months back. There's days of stubble roughing up his chin, and a severe tilt to his mouth. He looks honestly fucking awful, like the tail end of a week-long bender, but still - relaxed. Quietly content in a way that Niall feels in his bones, too.

"D'you ever think about how weird it is that this is the longest we've ever gone without seeing one another, since we met?" Niall blurts, before he can stop himself.

Louis laughs at him. It's a bright thing that transforms him from sullen stranger to someone that Niall recognizes from his past, Peter Pan in a striped t-shirt.

He leans across the table to whisper confidentially, like they're chatting across the table at a signing or talking shit with someone else in the room.

"All the bloody time, honestly."

Niall laughs. It gets easier, after that.

 

Louis leaves three hours later, squeezing Niall around the waist and pressing his cheek to Niall’s with a harsh scratch of stubble on skin. He smells like he always does, like stale cigarette smoke and cologne, the labdanum and pepper that makes Niall sneeze straight out the bottle.

“Can I come by tomorrow, before we go?”

“Yeah,” says Niall, tugging Louis' hoodie strings. “Of course, yeah. Come for tea?”

He’s not sure if Louis will show, but it feels good to be asked. To have plans.

Louis crowds in tighter and tucks his nose beneath Niall’s ear. “Love to.”

 

Niall texts Harry that night: Lou came by today unannounced of course!! nice to see him… would love to see you soon too.

Harry must be in LA, because the reply comes eight hours later, in the middle of the night.

I’ll be back in a week. Dinner at mine? You can stay the night.

 

Louis does come the next day, cheerful in ratty joggers and a beanie.

Niall whistles when he sees him. “The romance really is gone. I remember when you used to dress up for me.”

“We won,” Louis says, shrugging happily, “And consequently, I am incredibly hungover today. You can take your romance and shove it up your arse, mate.”

Niall fixes them massive sandwiches with crisps and ice cold cider, the dry hopped kind that Louis favors. Louis devours it all, using spare crisps to illustrate a play-by-play of last night’s match.

Niall doesn’t tell him that he’s read the reviews already, just sits with his chin propped in his hand and watches as Louis slams his hand to the table, destroying the home team’s goalie and net in one fell swoop, tiny screaming sound effects included.

Niall laughs at him, at the way he wipes his hands on his legs and swears at the trail of grease and crumbs that soak into the fabric.

“I’ll come to the next one,” he promises, surprised to find he means it.

Louis beams.

“Would you? Zayn promised, too.” Louis looks suddenly embarrassed, like he hadn’t meant to say it, but Niall isn’t unsurprised.

“I figured of all of us, you and Zayn would break first,” he says, laughing to hide the sting.

Ten years together and it’d taken Louis months to contact him. The rest of them hadn’t even bothered. Liam and Zayn were still blank spaces, and Niall wonders what would have happened, if he hadn’t called Harry that day.

“It wasn’t like that,” Louis says. “Niall. It wasn’t. We thought you would want your space. The lads and I agreed.”

“What the fuck,” says Niall.

He hasn’t had a panic attack in ages, is the thing, but this feels like - his chest has gone tight and he’s suddenly panting, sucking in desperate air and digging his fingernails into his thighs.

“We just thought -” Louis frowns, stumped. “You seemed so upset, and it’s not like we’ve been meeting in secret behind your back, you know. You’re the first person I’ve seen, besides Zayn.”

“You need to leave,” says Niall, staring at his hands, white-knuckled. “I’m serious, get out.”

Louis stands up straight away but doesn’t move far, pacing to the edge of the room and right back again, looping in on himself.

“You’re not the only one who’s upset, you know,” he says, finally, touching the tips of his fingers to Niall’s kitchen counter. “And you need to breathe. Count to ten, Niall, would you?”

Niall looks at him. “I’m not a fucking idiot, Louis.”

He puts his head in his hands and counts to ten. Louis always was better than the others at handling Niall’s episodes. For one, he never called them that.

Episodes, like Niall was some sort of fainting Victorian maiden. But best of all, he never freaked out. Zayn would go tight-lipped and intense, Harry would panic too, and Liam would always want to cuddle it away, which was the worst. That too-tight claustrophobic feeling when the walls were already closing in on him.

Louis always laid out clear instructions and waited patiently for Niall to follow them and calm down. And failing that, he would get Niall a glass of water and a Xanax and sit patiently beside Niall until it worked.

Niall manages to wait it out, this time.

He looks at Louis, eventually. “What, did you have to get permission from the others? To come see me?”

“It’s not like that.” Louis shakes his head and paces back across. He stops right in front of Niall’s chair, hip bumping the edge of the round kitchen table.

“Listen, I just wanted. I missed you.” He makes a frustrated noise and fists his fingers in his hair. “I’m sorry about before, fuck. I really am. I missed you. And this might be a bit weird, Niall, and I'm sorry about that, too. Shit timing.”

And then Louis bends down and kisses him.

The first thing Niall thinks is, _Oh_. And then, Yes, finally. He opens his mouth for Louis’ tongue and tips his head back so Louis can tangle his hands in his hair, breathing out a moan when Louis tugs just this side of too hard.

Louis licks his upper lip and then pulls away, propping himself against the table to look down at Niall.

“Zayn and I think that this is.” Louis hums, touches Niall’s mouth with his thumb, fingers wrapped sweetly around Niall’s jaw. “The final solution. So to speak.”

Niall works his mouth open and then closed again. “First of all, too soon.”

Louis nods peaceably, like he expected that.

“Second, how high were you? Do you mean like, a post-band threesome, or.”

He can picture it, of course - Louis and Zayn pressed on either side of him, mouths wet and eyes warm. It would be good, possibly great, but the image feels incomplete. Barren.

“Not just the three of us. I don’t think I could bear it if it was just the three of us.” Louis shrugs, nonchalant. He’s back to staring at Niall’s kitchen cupboards like they hold the answers to all the mysteries of the universe. “It’s mad, I know. But I’m not sure I need it to make sense? Like in the grand scheme of things.”

Niall knows. It is mad, mad in the way that most of Louis and Zayn’s plans tend to be.

He thinks for a moment of telling Louis to fuck right off. That this is some sort of bizarre last-ditch effort to repair their relationships. That Louis is clearly disturbed, clinging on to a decade and a friendship he’ll never be able to recover. That he’s projecting.

It’s not the idea of - what, of skipping down the street as a freakish five-man daisy chain of gay love and musical harmony? It’s not that he doesn’t want all of them, however he can get them.

“I just don’t see how this would solve any of our problems, Lou.”

“Think about it?” says Louis, careless in a way that Niall recognizes as hopeful.

He nods eventually, pressing his hand to Louis’ hip until Louis looks him in the eye. “What about Liam, and Harry?”

“Mate,” says Louis, cupping Niall’s neck, “You were always the hardest sell.”

Niall doesn’t ask what that’s supposed to mean, just kisses and kisses him, until Louis has to go.

 

He texts Zayn: Do you mean it?

Zayn replies almost immediately, as though he’s been waiting. Niall reads his response and laughs, stupid and huge.

yes… can i see you soon? xx

Of course . Be in London next week with Harry, meet up then?

I’ll be waiting

 

Even before the end of it all, they'd been avoiding each other. Spread out as far as possible in green rooms and on stage. Holidays from work spent separately, no calls, a text or two if Niall was feeling generous.

It wasn't that he'd suddenly hated the rest of the lads, whatever the media said. It was just that sometimes he just needed some distance. A little break.

 

The drive to London is nice - bright sunshine, zero traffic, and the Eagles blaring. Niall sings along until his throat goes scratchy and does not worry, not even a little.

Harry opens the door looking healthier than he has done in years. Well rested and well fed, California tan and sun-streaked hair.

They eye one other for a moment. Harry breaks first, lets out one of his funny high-pitched yells and pulls Niall in for a hug, tangled masses of hair tickling Niall’s cheek.

Harry’s body is a familiar weight against his own. He squeezes until Niall lets out an involuntary squeak and then disengages, holding Niall out at arm’s length and peering down at him, delighted.

“Well look what the cat dragged in,” he says, because Harry always fancies a tired line. Though he’d call it classic, of course.

Niall rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure that no one actually says that anymore.”

“I'm bringing it back,” Harry says, with an over-exaggerated wink.

He doesn’t ask Niall inside, just grabs Niall’s rucksack where he dropped it when Harry was hugging the life out of him, and then wanders back into the house.

“Not sure anything’s changed since the last time you were here, but feel free to ask for the grand tour later,” Harry calls, leading Niall into the living room.

Niall shrugs, even though Harry can’t see. None of them have ever spent much time at Harry’s London house. Not even Harry's spent much time here, though it looks homier than it had done before, what Niall can remember of it. Bit more personal. Harry’s got a massive leather chesterfield in the middle of the room and one of Zayn’s paintings taking up almost an entire wall, above the piano. There’s a picture of the five of them, frame sat on a table, young young young.

Harry unceremoniously drops Niall’s overnight bag on the floor by the sofa and puts his hands on his hips. “I’ll move that to a bedroom later. There's loads, you get to pick.”

“Sure,” Niall says, laughing.

It should feel stranger to be in a room with Harry again, the same place and time. They’ve been texting nonstop since their conversation, if Niall could call it a conversation, but this is the first time Niall’s heard his voice since. And the first fifteen minutes back with Louis had felt like actual torture, though Niall’s not sure if that wasn’t Louis’ fault.

Instead it feels like a balm, a relief. Harry’s stood right across the room in a ripped up plaid and sagging jeans, bare feet pigeon-toed on the carpet. Niall could hug him again if he wants. He could tell him a joke, or comment on the frankly weird nude statue that Harry’s got shoved in the corner by the piano, like he’d got the idea from some sort of rich man’s decor checklist.

Harry saves him from the possibilities, though.

“Wanna get drunk?”

“God yes,” says Niall.

 

Harry’s only got wine, pomegranate juice, and a mostly-empty bottle of brandy that looks terribly cheap, considering the source.

“I know you hate wine,” he tells Niall, looking embarrassed, “Only I forgot to go grocery shopping before you came.”

He lines up the bottles apologetically on his kitchen counter and then squints at them, head tilted to the side.

“Are you pondering what I’m pondering?” Niall asks him, nodding first at the bottles, then at Harry.

“I think so, Brain,” Harry says.

He laughs then and makes a quick circle of the kitchen, coming back with: a bag of sugar, a pitcher, a measuring cup, and a long thin tool with a whisk-y end that he frowns at with something like betrayal. “Not even sure what this is for, to be honest.”

Niall goes to work, dusting sugar into the bottom of the pitcher and then pouring probably way too much brandy on top. He whisks while Harry uncorks both bottles of wine - different varieties, but neither of them give a fuck - and unceremoniously dumps them in too, one after the other. The juice tops it all off. Niall gives it another stir, wincing at the astringent smell.

“Bit sad,” Harry says, after it’s all mixed together. “Wish I had some fresh fruits to add.”

Niall claps him on the shoulder while Harry pours, jostling his arm and splashing some of it on to the countertop. “Two glasses of this shite and you won’t care.”

Harry puts loads of ice in a champagne bucket and brings that and the pitcher with them, setting them on his side table with no regard whatsoever for water rings. Niall thinks about mentioning it, but that was always Liam’s job.

Harry puts on music, some sort of soulful garage that has Niall feeling sleepy and content, and they sit together on the chesterfield and drink. The wine sits heavy on his tongue, sharp with pomegranate and cheap brandy. They both cough their way through two glasses before it takes on a smoother, gentler kind of burn.

“Louis came to see me,” he says, eventually. He’s already told Harry this, but it feels somehow important to mention it out loud, in person.

“Yeah. He texted me a few days before, asking if I thought it was, like, all right. What do I know, right?”

“It was nice. Good. Not the same as it used to be, but.” Niall shrugs. “I miss you. All of you.”

Harry nods. “Me too. Just isn’t the same being here, you know? Not like it was when we took breaks before, because I always knew I’d see you again just as soon as it was over.”

“Yeah,” Niall says, because he does. That’s been the worst part of it all. “Did Louis happen to mention, I mean.”

Harry snorts. “Him and Zayn’s plan? I thought there was no way he could be serious, at first, but he is. Not that I mind, I guess. It seems a good solution.”

Niall stares at him.

“In what world is a five way orgy a good solution?”

Harry makes a face at him, pours them both another. “You make it sound so sordid. I just meant, like. It’s not that much weirder than our past relationship, you know. And maybe we’d just have a cuddle, anyway.”

“You think Louis Tomlinson,” Niall says, laughing so hard he curls up and kicks Harry in the side, “Would be up for just a cuddle?”

Harry frowns. “I think that like, when you grow up together, like we all did. I think that you sort of grow into what the other people need you to be.”

Niall looks at Harry’s feet, crossed at the ankle and bare.

“What about who you need you to be?”

“It’s all the same thing, I think. I want to be who you all need me to be, because I need you.” Harry shrugs and then laughs, embarrassed.

Niall clears his throat. “I don’t wanna - I just want it to be like it was. I don’t know who I am anymore, I guess. Without you.”

“That’s stupid. You’re Niall.” Harry makes a face at him, fondness overlaid with frustration. “I want to kiss you. Can I?”

“I don’t know. I kissed Louis three days ago,” Niall admits. “It was good. It made me wonder if - I don’t know.”

He subsides, embarrassed. Harry smiles at him, dimples in a sharp face, and puts his hand on Niall’s hip, turning fully towards him.

“Well, we weren’t ever going to be normal,” he says, and presses a kiss to Niall’s cheek, just at the edge of his mouth.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Niall blurts, and then it’s like he can’t stop. “Harry, I’m sorry. I’m _sorry_.”

His chest feels tight again.

Harry pulls him in, curls his hands through his hair. He rubs his thumb along the shell of Niall’s ear.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says. "Niall. It wasn't your fault."

 

 

 

“I want - I need to take a break.”

Niall had been buzzing all day, a chilly drop in his stomach that’d got him pacing the room in front of the other lads, hands shoved in his trouser pockets.

“I think we’d all quite enjoy a break, Niall.” Louis said, tapping away at his mobile. He wasn’t even looking.

That wasn't what Niall had meant, anyway.

“Could you, for just one second, stop being such a massive dickhead?” Harry was as far away from the rest of them as he could physically get, slumped in a green room chair with dark circles underneath his eyes. Lou'd plastered concealer on him, but it hadn't helped much. He looked hollowed out, done for. “We’re off for two months after this one, Niall. It’ll be fine.”

Liam sighed, tapping anxiously at his thigh. “Don’t do this, lads, please. We’re on in ten.”

“Hey,” Zayn said, sounding very distant, “Do you think if we, like, refunded the entire crowd but let them stay, we wouldn’t have to sing What Makes You Beautiful? ”

“It’s the reason we’re famous at all,” Harry pointed out. “D’you honestly think Paul McCartney didn’t play Hey Jude every concert? Fans want to hear the hits.”

Louis made a derisive noise, still glaring down at his mobile. “I hope Paul McCartney’s burning in hell, to be entirely honest with you.”

“That’s fucked up,” Zayn said, sounding mildly impressed. “He’s like our spiritual grandfather or something.”

“Not to be, like, dramatic or anything, but you really are being a massive knob tonight. It's exhausting. Don't you have an off button?” Harry was looking at Louis, eyes half-shut.

Niall turned on his heel, made his way across the room again. He thought he might be sick.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “I didn’t mean that.” 

Two months, fuck. Two months. They'd gotten four a year ago, and it hadn't been enough. Niall felt claustrophobic wherever he went these days.

“Please,” said Liam, quiet. “This is the last show before break. Can’t we just have a spot of fun?”

“Sure, Liam. Good idea. Let’s have a spot of fun tonight!” Louis looked up then, face twisted up. Ugly. “Let’s sing all the crap songs we fucking hate, and lad about, and pretend we give a shit. That sounds wonderful, doesn't it?”

“Yayyyyy,” said Zayn, dully.

“Don’t pick on Liam, you arsehole.”

Liam glared at Harry. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

Niall stopped listening. He didn't care. It was all background noise to the roaring in his ears, the off-kilter sensation that had him backing up against the green room wall and counting to ten.

"Alright, Niall?" said Zayn eventually, concerned.

"No, I'm." Niall took a deep breath. Like ripping off a plaster. "I'm done. After tonight."

"What's that mean? Like." Harry was feigning like he didn't know very well what it meant.

It was lucky that they'd been left alone in the green room, that night. Caroline and Lou weren't there to fuss. Security wasn't there to pretend they hadn't heard. It felt freeing, like a wide-open space Niall was standing in the middle of, head tilted up to an infinite sky.

"You know what I mean."

They did, Niall could see it in their faces. Not a single one of them protested. Louis was staring at his phone again, mouth tight. Zayn was nodding like he knew, felt it too. Harry closed his eyes fully, tipped his head back and away from them.

"Well," Liam said eventually, voice rough, "We'd better make it a good one then, lads. What do you say?"

"Yeah," said Niall, looking him in the eye. "Yes. Of course, Liam."

 

 

 

Bressie calls. It's late afternoon, after the booze has dropped Harry snoring on the rug, wedged between the sofa and the coffee table. Niall rests his feet gently on Harry’s splayed thighs, warm through layers of wool sock and denim, avoiding any soft bits.

“Should I answer?” he asks.

Harry stirs a little and then subsides. “‘S just a _nap_ , Liam, god,” he says, and throws his forearm over his eyes.

“Yeah, you’re right,” says Niall, and swipes right. “Hi, mate.”

“Hey little bro,” says Bressie, cautious.

Niall abruptly remembers that it’s Friday.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, louder than he’d meant to. “I forgot. Hope you didn’t wait for me for too long.”

“You all right?”

Bressie sounds the kind of cautious he’d been in the first months after the end, stepping lightly and handling Niall with gruff, hesitant affection. He’d been better than Bobby had, anyway, who’d whispered the other lads’ names with the same sort of soft, careful tone that usually meant someone had died.

“Yeah, yeah, just at Harry’s.”

Bressie makes an alarmed noise that has Niall glaring at nothing.

“And the rest?” Bressie says, like he already knows the answer, and that answer is that all of them are currently holding Niall at gunpoint, telling him just what to say.

"Just Harry today. He's passed out already. Had a few too many."

Bressie's silence is telling enough. Niall takes a sip of his sangria, lukewarm and watery by now, and contemplates dinner.

"Be careful, then," Bressie says, eventually.

"It's the lads, though," Niall says, frowning at his mobile. "I'm not sure I have to be."

 

Louis texts early, four am: a simultaneous chime and muted buzz from their mobiles.

Niall groans, clutching his sides. He'd made a massive fry-up for a late supper, and thought Harry might have to roll him to bed. "Nope, sorry," he tells his phone.

Harry's mobile is closest, so he reads it out loud: "Group text, all the lads. Louis says we ought to come over tomorrow night for alcoholic refreshment and a bit of slap and tickle."

"He does not," Niall says, rolling his eyes.

"Well, no," Harry admits, "But it is definitely implied. Also, BYOB. Cheap bastard."

 

He takes Harry with him to Zayn’s the next night mainly because Zayn knows who he’s staying with and hadn’t said not to.

They knock on the front door and wait, Harry rocking anxiously on half-destroyed cuban heels and Niall biting a fingernail, fidgety.

“What if he’s forgotten,” Harry says, eventually.

“Shut up. Zayn's not that stupid.”

“No but like, anything could have happened, here. Maybe he got cold feet. Maybe he’s halfway to Belarus by now.”

“Why,” Niall laughs, “Would Zayn go to Russia. ”

“He’d look nice in one of them big furry hats, at least,” Harry says, shrugging.

Zayn opens the door abruptly, enthusiastically, almost swinging it back into his own body but sliding away just in time.

“I’d rather die,” he says, stepping back into the foyer.

Niall and Harry follow, Niall closing the door behind them and spinning fully to peer at Zayn. It’s been seven months.

Zayn has the glossy, vague look of the recently toked - nerves, probably - but his slow grin is pleased as anything.

“Lads,” he says, and lets them draw him into a hug.

He presses his cheeks between Niall and Harry’s and gives them each a quick kiss, onetwo. It’s not a showy thing or really much more than a brief press, his stubbled cheeks against theirs, but Niall feels it in a warm slow creep all the way to his toes.

“Hi,” he says, stupidly. “You look good.”

Zayn laughs at him, not unkindly. He pushes a hand through his hair and smiles gently at the floor, instead of at Niall. “You too. Both of you.”

Zayn does look good. Skinny as ever, hair ungelled and falling in his eyes. He’s got one of Louis’ old hoodies on, and a pair of ripped jeans that Niall thinks might have originally been his.

Harry clears his throat. “So, uh. How you been?”

“Fine,” Zayn says, shrugging. “How about you?”

“Bit hungover,” Harry admits.

Niall stifles a laugh. He feels great, personally, but Harry’s drinking refractory period is shit these days. He’d taken an hour long shower, moaning so loudly Niall could hear him down the hall, and drank what must have been an entire gallon of coconut water - the kind with chunky bits in, which made Niall feel a bit sick just by proxy. He was still looking yellow about the edges.

“Aw, poor little Harry,” says Zayn in a baby voice, tugging at Harry’s shirtsleeve impatiently. “Come on. I made dinner.”

“No you didn’t.” Niall pokes Zayn in the side until he squirms and bats at him, giggling.

Zayn holds up his hands in surrender and dances away. “Fine, fine, yeah, I ordered sushi and then put it on some plates, like. It’s proper fancy now.”

“You’re all class, Malik,” Harry tells him.

 

In Zayn’s defense, the take-out is very good: sushi arranged prettily on platters, little dishes of soy sauce and wasabi and ginger, a bottle of chilled white wine that makes Harry whistle, pleased, and a six pack of good Irish lager for Niall.

Zayn just shrugs when Niall thanks him. “No big deal.”

They crowd around Zayn’s little table and devour it all with their fingers, sticky with rice and astringent with vinegar, elbows bumping.

Zayn’s cat curls herself around Harry’s legs and meows pitifully until Harry sneaks her a piece of salmon. Zayn pretends to avert his eyes, though he also rolls them as soon as Harry’s turned back to his shashimi.

The cat is wearing a little paisley bowtie. Niall kicks Harry under the table, until Harry flinches away and yells, “For fuck’s sake, Niall! I can see the bloody cat!”

Zayn remains placid as ever through it all, though Niall secretly thinks he looks a bit pleased.

Niall is at once amazed and pleased by how non-monumental this whole thing has been. Zayn still fits like a well-worn sweater, like years of late nights crowded together in the back lounge and early mornings sharing brekkie in a hotel suite.

“D’you remember the first time we tried sushi?” Zayn says eventually, when the food’s half gone and even Niall’s slowing down.

“Yeah,” Harry says, shaking his head. “Liam had to bet every single one of us one hundred thousand yen to try it.”

“Not Louis,” Niall reminds him, pointing a finger. “Think Lou thought it was gonna be like eating worms or summat, totally gross. I’ve never seen him look so surprised.”

Zayn huffs a laugh. “I've never bet against Liam again either, like, I think he might be a bit psychic, actually.”

Niall clears his throat. “You talked to Liam at all?”

“Not a lot. Not about all of this, like.” Zayn makes a sort of all-encompassing gesture that could be broadly interpreted as as: five way love connection-slash-orgy. “I think he might be avoiding me? I get a read receipt when he sees my texts, but he never responds.”

“Me too.” Harry looks absolutely miserable over it, staring moodily down at a tempura-stuffed roll.

Niall squeezes his hands between his legs. Zayn’s cat has curled up against his shins, purring madly, so loudly it’s overlaying whatever it is Zayn’s got on the record player. Kid Cudi, maybe.

“I haven’t tried, you know,” he says, wincing. “I haven’t texted at all.”

Harry and Zayn exchange a look. Harry reaches over to clap Niall on the shoulder, stupid chin-up face plastered on. “Liam’ll understand, Nialler.”

“Not sure about that. He’ll actually prolly be really upset.” Zayn says, like a total fucking buzzkill. “Oops.”

“Yeah, oops,” says Harry. “Oopsy-fucking-daisy.”

He twists the cap off of another bottle of the lager and slides it closer to Niall’s side of the table. Niall takes it gratefully, picking miserably at where the label is sliding off the bottle, damp with condensation.

Zayn backtracks. “Liam’s an understanding bloke. He’s probably feeling just as shit as the rest of us, really.”

That only makes Niall feel worse. Seven months without the other lads and Niall had hired a house decorator.

Harry’d gone completely barmy and bought a load of gold plate nude statues. He'd shown Niall last night, sheepish but cackling, where he'd sat them in the garden. ("You should have seen Nick's face when he came in and found them all lined up in a row.") Louis’ grown a bum beard and Zayn’s begun dressing his cat up for shits and giggles.

Judging by Harry’s wince and Zayn’s carefully-blank expression, they realize it, too. The past seven months have been utter shite. Liam’s probably been doing stress-related pushups fifty times a day and eating fried chicken and pizza for every single meal.

"Louis' invited us all round for drinks tomorrow,” Harry says, eventually. “We can see him then.”

“If he shows up.” Zayn’s eyebrows have gotten very pointed.

“He will.” Niall isn’t really sure, though. He downs half his lager in one go, burping.

Harry snorts. “He’d better, or no kisses for him.”

“Ugh, Harry,” Zayn says, face crumpling. “Don’t say it like that.”

“It was literally your idea.”

Zayn shrugs. “Could have been. Could have been Lou. We were really stoned. Louis drew up a sort of pyramid scheme and everything. I couldn’t feel my own face for six straight hours.”

Niall goggles at Zayn. In his peripheral vision he can see Harry narrowing his eyes, gearing himself up for a row.

“Kiss him, Harry.” Niall laughs, then, an uncontrollable bark. "Give him kisses."

Both their heads swing around. A piece of tuna falls right off of the piece of nigiri Harry’s got pinched between thumb and forefinger, always shit at using chopsticks.

Niall raises his eyebrows, gives Harry an encouraging smile and two thumbs up.

“Right,” says Harry. He puts the little ball of rice down and takes a quick swig of wine, swishing showily. He smiles at Zayn. "Wouldn't want my mouth to taste fishy."

Zayn shakes his head, looking confused. “Wait, I’m not sure that, like-”

He still hasn’t kissed Harry himself, has Niall. Last night, drunk and handsy, Harry had crowded him against the wall beyond his guest room, elbows pressed to plaster, caging Niall in. He'd dragged his mouth along Niall's jawline and breathed hotly into his ear, until Niall was pulling at the sides of his plaid and whining, and then he'd gone. Jumped back, grinning smugly, blown him a kiss goodnight.

Niall can imagine it, though. He's seen Harry kiss loads of people. Hard not to, after over ten years spent with one another. Little teasing kisses, cheek kisses, hungry presses of mouth to mouth. He'd even seen some tongue once or twice, and backpedaled yelling out of the room.

But seeing this: Harry cupping Zayn's neck gently with one hand, tipping his head back until the line of Zayn's throat is one long stretch. Harry's thumb at the corner of Zayn's mouth, pressing inward until Zayn gasps and parts his lips. Harry leaning in and licking straight inside, no fanfare and none of the teasing he'd given Niall last night, just a slick slow slide that's got Zayn making shocked, low noises and Niall spreading his legs, shifting lower in his seat. It's different.

Zayn pushes at Harry's shoulders, eventually, breaking away to gulp in air.

"Living room. Now."   Harry nods, eyes warm. He helps Zayn to his feet, hand at Zayn's waist. Niall wants to see his hands all over Zayn.

Niall's too busy feeling shocked at himself, the sudden heaviness of his dick in his pants, to realize they're both staring at him and probably have been doing for a while now.

"Sorry, what?" he says.

"Come on, Niall." Harry gestures Up!, hands impatient. "Living room!"

Why not. Niall gets up and goes to the living room, taking his remaining beer with him. Watching Harry and Zayn kiss some more is suddenly his number one priority, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy the show.

Zayn snickers during the short trip down the hall, and explains: "Louis is going to be, like, so jealous. Kept trying to insist that he got first go with everybody, since he's the oldest."

"Have you kissed anyone else?" Niall says, suddenly curious.

"Like, ever?" Zayn looks confused, but also exasperated. "No, never."

"No, I mean, like, of us. Louis or Liam."

"I'm finding myself suddenly quite curious as well," Harry says, waggling his eyebrows. They both ignore him.

Zayn sits down on his sofa, crosses one ankle over the opposite knee, a studied casuality to the movement. Niall recognizes it, of course. The classic Zayn interview pose. Second only to intrigued nod with chin in hand or, Niall's personal favorite, faux-shock with a side of disdain.

Niall sits down beside him, tugging Harry down with him so that he's sandwiched between the two of them, elbows bumping and thighs pressed tight.

"Might have done," Zayn says, eventually.

"Liam?" Zayn shakes his head. "Louis?"

Zayn shrugs. "Remember Amsterdam, 2020?"

"Wait, yeah. We ate all those edibles." Harry's got a look of slowly-dawning recognition on his face. "Liam stared at his own hands all night and the two of you disappeared for, like, six hours straight. Niall and I were beside ourselves."

Niall stares at him. "No, you were beside yourself, and I was beside you. It was the saddest thing I've ever seen. You thought they were dead."

"Not dead, like. We were just in Louis' hotel room."

Harry tilts his head, peering around Niall at Zayn. "Are you two, like. Properly together?"

"No." Zayn hums. "Just didn't seem right, without the rest of you."

Harry nods. "I get that."

"Now!" Niall claps his hands together, startling Harry so badly he jumps, and Zayn begins to laugh, slumping into the sofa cushions. He looks beautiful like this, happy and sociable. “My turn?”

Zayn’s face lights up. “Your turn, then. Come here.”

He pulls Niall in, hands gentle on the sides of his face.

 

When Niall comes out of his room the next morning - well, early afternoon - Harry is up already, standing motionless in the hallway like a freak. He's got on what Niall privately calls his Fancy Hat, stark black against the silver-and-brown of his hair, but is also still in his pants. Niall's not sure what look he's meant to be going for.

"Alright?" he asks.

Harry startles and peers around at him, as though he's forgotten Niall is staying with him.

"What? Oh, fine. Just a bit nervous ‘bout tonight, I guess."

Niall can't pass Harry without pressing himself to the wall and sidling around him, so he walks straight up and tweaks one of Harry's nipples. Harry squawks and bats at him.

"It's just Liam and Louis," he says, like he isn't ten more minutes and some burnt toast away from completely losing his mind, too. He shrugs. "Though I might put some trousers on, if I were you."

Harry bends to kiss him then, a first brief press of lips that has Niall smiling, stretched up on tip-toe to reach back. He pushes Harry's stupid hat straight off his head in delight, smacking his own kiss to the dimple in Harry's cheek when he grumbles at him, disappointed.

"Just tryin' to help. Can’t put a shirt on with that on your head.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Could have been wearing a button down. God, Niall, you’re so stupid.”

He looks calmer now, though, so Niall lets it slide.

He tugs on Harry’s hand, pulling him along. “Breakfast? I’ll make you an omelet, want an omelet?”

“Not particularly,” Harry says, but follows gamely enough. “What if this doesn’t work out?”

“Haven’t broken an omelet in years.” He can feel Harry’s glare, and shrugs. “It’ll work out. It’s got to.”

Harry snorts. “It hasn’t got to do anything. We couldn’t hack it as a band anymore, so like, how are we supposed to make this work?”

Niall thinks. They’ve reached the kitchen by now, and he sets himself to measuring out coffee beans into Harry’s grinder, while Harry flips the kettle on, sets up the Chemex and filters. 

Harry’s absolutely wretched when it comes to coffee. Won’t drink a cup of drip or anything out of a blade grinder, either. Niall’d spent two obsessive weeks in 2018 teaching himself how to make a proper pour-over, for mornings when Harry was too tired or hungover to do it for himself. That'd been after Harry's much-lamented kombucha phase, and after the fatigue had really begun to set in.

“Well for one, we’re not being forced into seeing one another. When was the last time we all hung out, just for fun?”

Harry tilts his head, pouring ground coffee into the filter. “Summer, 2021. We went camping. Louis got poison ivy and Zayn complained the whole time.” 

“Right, exactly.” Niall pushes Harry out of the way and dribbles boiling water onto the grounds. They watch them bloom together. “Been almost two years, and tonight we’re all gonna go to Louis’ and have a laugh.”

“And a bit of a snog,” Harry reminds him, as if he could have forgotten. “Which is, like, actually the part I’m having difficulty with, here.”

Niall shrugs, crouching down low to watch the coffee drip into the body of the carafe, breathing it in. “Didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

Harry laughs, then. “But that’s just Zayn, right? Couldn’t feel weird with Zayn if I tried.”

He pulls the filter and pours Harry a mug full of coffee, handing it to him handle first, ignoring the sting of conducted heat through ceramic. Harry takes it from him, grateful, blowing steam straight in Niall’s face.

“Couldn’t feel weird around any of us,” Niall corrects. He waits for Harry’s face smooth out, and goes to make himself a cuppa.

 

He texts Bressie: wish me luck !

Bressie's quick on the draw: Don’t do anything I wouldn't do.

Niall doesn’t have the heart to tell him it’s too late for that.

 

The visit to Louis’ is a bit strange at first, in Harry’s defense.

Louis’ eyes are huge and unsure where he’s stood taking their coats, telling them Zayn’s in the living room, and did Niall have a nice trip down? Harry balances on his heels and stares straight back at Louis, upper lip pulled between his front teeth.

“Hi, Louis,” he says.

Louis smiles at Harry, a big nervy thing. “Harry.”

He doesn’t say anything else, just leads them by example through the hallway, as though they haven't all been over a thousand times before.

It does feel a little new, like this. With the expectation and the knowledge that things are different, different enough to warrant Louis' avoidance and Harry's strange shy silence.

Louis is pushing his hands through his hair over and over again, saying words Niall isn’t paying any attention to, waiting for Louis to burn himself out and be calm again. He hasn’t seen Louis this nervous in years, not even when he’d come to see Niall a few weeks back. He stifles a laugh with the back of his hand, feeling helplessly fond.

“What are you laughing at.” Louis is starting to look properly stressed, and so Niall feigns ignorance and wraps himself bodily around Louis, peppering kisses against his whiskers until Louis manages to shove him off, stumbling and banging his elbow on the wall.

“I feel a bit slighted, mate,” Zayn calls, sunk into the corner of Louis’ sofa.

Harry kisses the side Louis’ head, cool, and wanders over to sit on top of Zayn, which is probably not what Zayn had in mind.

“Great, Harry, thanks.”

“No problemo,” Harry says, sighing. He tilts his head back onto Zayn’s shoulder and closes his eyes, smug half-smile firmly plastered on.

Louis is staring at Harry, eyes wide. “That’s it?”

“Yeah.” Harry cracks open an eye. “I’m basking in Zayn right now. I’ll get to you, though, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Louis says.

Zayn turns his head into the dip of Harry’s neck to hide a smile that Louis sees anyway, that makes him turn on his heel and leave with a huff.

Niall sits in an armchair big enough for two and waits, peering at Zayn and Harry, suddenly cheerful.

Louis comes back with a stack of glasses and a pitcher full of iced, orangeish alcohol. Niall eyes it dubiously. It’s got a single miniature paper umbrella stuck in the top.

“What the hell is that.” Zayn sounds extremely unimpressed.

“Mai tai,” Niall says, nose already wrinkling. “Liam’s favorite.”

“You are such a suck-up,” Harry tells Louis.

Louis sticks his tongue out, and then pours them each a glass.

“There’s more where that came from,” he assures them, as if any of them had even asked, and takes such a large gulp he starts to cough.

 

Two drinks in and Niall feels rose-tinted, slightly tipsy. “I can see why Liam likes these," he tells the others.

Zayn makes a face. "They're awful, actually. Far too sweet."

“You’re far too sweet.” Harry laughs at his own joke, but Niall feels so endeared to all of them he can’t even groan about it.

Louis pulls his phone out, clicking it on and then off again, throwing it onto the arm of the chair. He’d crawled in with Niall after the first glass, was idly pulling at the hair at the very top of Niall’s head and scowling.

“Liam’s really late.” 

“Traffic?” Niall offers.

“At eight?” 

“Right,” says Louis, and jumps to his feet. “We’re going.”

Harry looks up from affixing the drink umbrella into Zayn’s hair, a little braid he’s done at the crown to hold it in place. “Going where?”

“Liam won’t be pleased,” Zayn warns.

Louis glares at all of them, defiant. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re meant to be apologizing and growing as people, here. I’d quite like to get that part over with so we can get to the fun part.”

“By that you mean the snogging?” Niall just needs to clarify.

“Right, that.”

“Sick,” he says, approvingly.

“We can’t just show up on Liam’s doorstep and demand he be our boyfriend,” Harry points out, somewhat reasonably.

Louis sneers at him. “Who said anything about boyfriends?”

“Uh, you did.”

“It was only implied, never overtly stated,” Louis says, dignified. “We could just have a cuddle, you know.”

Niall rolls his eyes so hard he thinks they might actually fall out of his head.

“Can we just go, already?” says Zayn.

 

They go, already. It takes a bit because Zayn’s actually gone wobbly with drink, and Harry loses his hat, and Louis is white-knuckled, pacing his own front hallway. Also they have to order a taxi, after a brief discussion about how terrible a post-band mass imprisonment for driving under the influence would be.

It’s all a bit claustrophobic, actually, the buzz and noise of all the lads around him after all those months on his own. Niall feels a little breathless, a lot hopeful. He thinks vaguely that he ought to be reaching for the Xanax by now, but it’s a familiar agitation, the annoyance and the warmth.

He wonders if Liam’s been lonely, too.

The thought aches. It’s easy to picture Liam sitting just the same as Niall all those weeks ago. In a heap on his kitchen floor, only Liam wouldn’t have called anyone - he would have sat there and sat there, and eventually he’d have got up and got on with everything.

Niall gets them all in the taxi, and gets on with everything, too.

 

It’s almost ten by the time they knock on Liam’s door. Louis is the one to do it, thumb and forefinger pinching Liam’s traditional little lions-head doorknocker, muttering under his breath the whole time. He’d lost the coin toss. 

Liam opens the door on the third round of knocking and takes one look at the lot of them, huddled on his stoop, and promptly slams it shut again.

Niall’s struck dumb by the glimpse of him. He can feel it in the pit of his stomach, hot shock warring with fondness. It takes him a moment to realize that Liam isn’t at all pleased to see them.

"I really don’t want to see any of you!" Liam shouts, loud enough that Zayn makes a mournful expression and takes a step back.

The four of them exchange glances. Louis raises an eyebrow at Niall, see? See how I felt?

Niall stamps on his foot, and doesn't feel a bit sorry when Louis shrieks and flings himself away, thumping into Zayn.

"Ow, Louis, you idiot!" Zayn pushes him off onto Harry, who just blinks, bemused.

"Liam, just listen," Harry begins, and Liam turns off the porch light.

“Joke’s on you, Liam,” Louis yells, “My phone’s got a flashlight!”

Niall has to raise his voice a bit, to be heard over the bizarre platitudes Harry’s spouting now, and Louis’ posturing. “We just want to talk, Li. I want to talk to you. I want to apologize.”

Liam does flip the light back on then, and eventually he opens the door too, just a crack. He looks exhausted, bruised.

“Please go away,” he says, peering out but away from them.

“We just want to talk, Liam.” Harry says again, slowly. “We’ve missed you.”

“I didn’t miss you. I - I don’t want to see you.” Liam always was a terrible liar, though.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call, mate.” Niall frowns at himself. There’s no real excuse, is there.

“Let us in, mate.” Louis tells him, tired.

Liam shakes his head once, then stops. “If I don’t?”

Louis purses his lips and gazes solemnly back. “I will stand here and scream at the top of my lungs until you do, Liam. What do you think.”

“Right,” Liam says, nodding. “Come in.”

 

Niall’s spent more time in living rooms and on porches over the past week than he’d care to admit. Here in Liam’s space is the first time he’s felt truly awkward about it, watching Liam’s shoulders tense up, ignoring the empties of cider - Louis’ favorite - crowded on the coffee table. The television’s off, and there’s no music playing. All the lights in the room are turned on.

“What do you want?” he asks them.

Zayn looks at Niall. Niall looks at Louis. Louis looks at Harry, who looks right back at Liam, stumped.

“You didn’t show tonight and we thought that, like, we might come make sure you’re okay?” Zayn says, into the quiet. “Louis made Mai Tais.”

“Tried to bring them with us in the taxi, but the driver wouldn’t have it,” Louis tells him. A weak joke. 

“We’d quite like to date you, also,” Harry adds. “That’s why we’re here.”

The rest of them stare at him in horror. 

“What,” Louis says, slowly, “Happened to breaking it to him gently.”

“Sorry, are you joking?” Liam looks like he would very much like for it to be a joke. Wounded and falsely cheerful, face fixed in a look of polite interest. “Though I’m not actually sure I care very much, either way. I’d quite like all of you to leave now, please.”

Niall shakes his head, glances warningly at Harry. “I really do want to apologize, Liam. I was a right arsehole.”

Liam looks at him, a total blank. “The others texted, said they were going to see you. But you never said anything to me, like. I don’t fully understand, to be entirely honest.”

“I disappointed you,” Niall blurts, before he can stop himself. “I took away the one thing you loved most in the world, and it was fucking - I was a coward, mate.”

Even as he’s saying it, he realizes it’s true. Liam was just like him. The band had shaped their entire fucking lives. Harry, Louis, Zayn, whatever. They’d been fully-formed human beings before all of that, but Liam and him, they’d come to life. What was there after that, for them?

Liam is staring at him.

“I don’t think that’s what happened at all, actually.” 

“Liam -” Niall’s chest hurts, but Liam just shakes his head.

“Niall, man.” Zayn whistles. “That’s not what happened. We all wanted it, too.”

The rest of them nod. Harry's glaring at him, a sort of, You could have said.

Niall takes a moment to reevaluate the past months of his life, then shrugs. “That’s neither here nor there. This is supposed to be for Liam, anyway. Liam, why didn’t you come to Louis’ tonight?”

Liam shifts on the balls of his feet, biting his lower lip. “I thought. I guess I thought you were making fun of me. Louis had texted a couple of weeks ago about, like, him and Zayn wanting - but it just didn’t seem real, and it wasn’t like I thought all of you were going to - but now you’ve all shown up here, and I’m not really sure what to think. Anymore.”

It takes Niall a second to process all of that, but judging by Louis' frown, he’s not the only one.

"I texted you about this whole thing, like." Zayn looks properly confused, but then so does Liam. “Asking if you could see yourself with us, like, properly. It wasn’t a joke.”

"You mean that one from 3am on a Monday that was just the words ‘what do you think’? And a smiley face? That text?"

Louis smacks Zayn good on the arm. "Fuck's sake. You had one job."

Liam sinks onto his sofa, head in his hands, and Niall sits down beside him, putting a hand to his back.

“We’re really -”

“Yeah, sorry. Right.” Liam’s looking helplessly up at them now, eyes huge. “You keep saying that.”

“We are, though,” Niall tells him, because he needs Liam to know, to understand.

Liam stares at his hands, and Niall jerks his head at the rest of them, looking at Liam and then back, helpless. Louis does what he does best and insinuates himself, stepping right over and sliding into the space on the opposite side of Liam, getting an arm round Liam’s neck and leaning in close to put a proprietary hand on Niall’s thigh.

“Listen, Liam,” he says, utterly serious, “I thought about bringing along a sort of Pro-Con list, about why this -”

“- five-way polyamorous relationship built from the smoldering remains of our former band -” Harry clarifies, just in case Liam was confused.

“- makes sense, only I think I’d rather do this,” Louis finishes, grandly ignoring Harry.

Louis, Niall realizes, has only got one real move in his arsenal. Steamroller. He does the same thing he did to Niall, only less smoothly, mashing his mouth to Liam’s with a bull-headed kind of certainty.

Liam balks, fisting his hands in Louis’ jumper like he’s not sure he wants to push or pull. He makes an angry, confused sound and then goes utterly boneless. Niall strokes a hand down his spine, wonderingly. He can see the give of Liam’s mouth, plush and open, and the way that Louis’ teeth dig into Liam’s bottom lip. Louis’ hand is kneading his thigh now, short nails biting in, and Niall gasps along with Liam, warm everywhere.

The cushion beneath them dips as Harry sits down beside Niall, putting his hand on top of Louis’, pushing down.

He can hear Louis’ sharp intake of breath when Liam finally pulls away, but he’s not sure if it’s because Liam’s groaning, shaking his head, or if it’s because Harry’s got his and Louis’ twined hands nearly over Niall’s straining dick by now. Could be either-or. Niall lets his chin drop to his chest and counts slowly to ten.

“Alright, lads?” says Zayn, sitting so primly next to Liam that Niall had barely felt the sofa move.

“Y-yeah,” says Niall, going slowly mad, at the same time as Liam says: “I’m not sure, actually.”

“Tell us about it, Liam,” Harry says, stilling his hand.

Liam tilts his head, right and then left, taking them all in. “This is completely insane,” he mutters, so quietly that Niall might not have heard, if they weren’t pressed so tightly together. Five grown men on a couch isn’t the easiest fit.

“I thought I’d be angry with you forever,” he says, eventually. “Only now you’re all here and I can’t be.”

Niall reaches across to tap Liam’s face gently with the palm of his hand, dislodging Harry and Louis’ hands. “We need you, mate. This won’t work, otherwise.”

“You don’t have to answer now, though,” Zayn adds. “This is going to take some work.”

Louis frowns, suddenly self-conscious. “Didn’t mean to, like. Push you.”

“We respect you, Liam,” Harry says, nodding. Niall groans and elbows him in the gut.

Louis slumps further into Liam’s side, twists around until he’s got his head tucked beneath Liam’s jaw, legs splayed out onto Niall’s lap. Harry puts his hands on Louis’ ankles and squeezes. Along Liam’s other side, he can see Zayn, hand resting high on Liam’s chest, head on his shoulder. 

“Stay for a while, though?” Liam looks - hopeful, Niall supposes. He knows the feeling.

Louis yawns. “Couldn’t get rid of us if you tried.”

He watches Zayn press a careful kiss to Liam’s cheek.

“Hey,” Liam says, and reaches up to touch the crown of Zayn’s head. He starts to laugh. “Did you know you’ve got a tropical drinks umbrella in your hair?”

 

 

 

Their last show had been a good one.

Niall'd felt feather-light, freer than he had in ages, jumping into mid-air kicks that he hadn't tried in years, posturing for a bit of electric guitar. He doesn't remember much else other than that, really. Just a sensation of unbearable lightness and the roar of the crowd. Burning stage lights.

He remembers thinking it felt like one of the very first times. Not on a soundstage in front of a studio audience, but during their first proper tour, young and in awe of themselves. They'd been so impossibly, stupidly brave.

The lads had all been right there with him that night. They'd jumped dizzily about onstage, meeting, rebounding. Egging each other on. Coming together and then apart, fond hands catching and releasing. By the time the encore had come, they’d been unstoppable.

When Niall thinks of it now, it's all flashes. Snapshots. Through the lense of memory there is only:

The curve of Zayn's neck, head tilted at an angle. Louis laughing madly, climbing Liam's back for a ride. Harry's hands moving slowly on an air piano then lightning-quick, pounding the air. Liam drinking in the crowd. Singing to them. Arms held high.

The slap-crack pain of Niall's feet hitting the stage floor after one final leap.

 

 

 

His doorbell goes.

Liam's shown up first, which is hardly surprising. Niall pulls him in with a hand twisted into his jacket, tugging until his own back's to a wall and Liam's pressed over him, grinning.

"You're early. The rest of the lads aren't due for at least another half hour. I'm still pre-heating the grill."

Liam shrugs. His hands are wandering up and down Niall's sides, warm through his t-shirt. "Wanted to see you."

Niall pulls Liam down for a brief welcome-kiss, sliding their noses together after. It's been five months since Liam’s house, three months since they started this.

"Liam, question. Serious question. D'you ever think about whether or not we would have done this, if we'd stayed together?"

Niall doesn't mean to ask, really. It's just something he's been wondering, lately.

Liam reaches up to tug at Niall's forelock, pulling it gently away from his eyes. He frowns thoughtfully.

"Sometimes. I don't think we would have, I don't. Don't really care though, to be honest." He shrugs then, self-conscious, but Niall knows what he means.

The thing is, it doesn't matter. The five of them have been together so long and in so many different ways, sometimes Niall thinks they'll have it all. Every possible thing, good or bad or somewhere in between. And no matter what, Niall will take whatever he can get, and take it gladly.

"It doesn't matter, yeah? I'm happy. The lads are happy. Are you happy, Liam?"

Liam kisses him again.

"Yeah," he says, laughing, wide open. "Yes. Of course. _Niall_."

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to Sir Paul.


End file.
